


Something Beautiful

by consigliore



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 20:33:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consigliore/pseuds/consigliore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Um so a long time ago Sophie gave me really bad Fight Club AU feelings so I wrote this</p>
<p> Disclaimer: Um I don't own One Direction and I didn't write Fight Club, Chuck Palahniuk did (and Jim Uhls wrote the screenplay)<br/>I just like writing sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Beautiful

The basement was crowded and warm with the musk of sweating bodies; the only light provided from a bare bulb in the middle of the room, and as Zayn’s eyes adjusted to the light he began to make out faces. The men were in a crowded circle and Zayn could see the middle of the circle under the light was darkened with old blood stains. Many of the men had already abandoned their shirts, shoes, and belts.

            A curly haired man Zayn knew from work stepped into the light and looked at the men around him. Conversations turned into murmurs and then faded. Harry Styles began to speak. It was the usual speech, but Harry said it with renewed intensity every time. “Welcome to fight club,” he declared, throwing out his arms. “Rule number one of Fight Club is you don’t talk about fight club.” Zayn heard a few men chuckle and mumble the rules under their breath along with Harry, “Rule number two is you _don’t talk about fight club_.” Harry ignored them, fight club always started with the rules; it was one of the unspoken rules of fight club.

“Third rule of fight club is—when someone says ‘stop’ or goes limp, the fight is over. Fourth rule is—only two guys to a fight. Fifth rule—one fight at a time. Sixth rule—no shirts, no shoes. Seventh rule—fights go on as long as they have to. And the eighth and final rule—” Harry looked around the room and found Zayn’s eyes, “if this is your first night at fight club, you have to fight.”

Zayn Malik had been coming to fight club for almost three months now, and hadn’t yet fought. Harry knew this, and Zayn wondered why he hadn’t dragged him into the ring himself at this point.

Harry grinned cat-like at the crowd and stepped back. The first two fighters stepped into the makeshift ‘ring’ and sized each other up. It was Liam Payne and some guy Zayn didn’t recognize, probably a first-timer.

***** 

That first night Zayn had stepped into the dark basement, he had actually stumbled in, slightly drunk, looking for a fight. Stumbled in right in the middle of fight club to see a guy who he knew now as Liam just tearing another guy apart. Zayn just stopped and stared. Liam fought no shoes, no shirt, no belt; sweating, just like everyone else. Liam looked carved out of wood.

Although his eyes were narrowed and his fists were flying, there was no malice behind the punches, no anger. Liam fought like it was art. Liam fought like Zayn painted, with big swinging strokes, color blossoming after every strike. Zayn stood unsteady on his feet and watched as he laid into the guy. In his drunken mind, he knew he wouldn’t fight that night. His mind was on other things. The focus he had had for a fight was lost. He hid in the crowd and watched Liam. Watched his jaw clench and the light behind his eyes, Liam was like a living, breathing painting. This was why Zayn could never paint him quite right, he was already art.

Without knowing it, the floppy haired fighter with a dreadfully ironic name like Liam _Payne_ became Zayn’s muse. That made Zayn feel very artistic, having a muse. After months without inspiration, he was finally painting again.

Zayn rediscovered his art that night. Watching Liam fight was beautiful and he wanted to write poetry about the way his body moved when he was hunched over another guy on the ground, he wanted to sketch his fists with charcoal and paint the intensity in his innocent copper-colored eyes. He wanted to kiss Liam’s sweaty fringe and trail his fingertips down the veins in his arms, lay his head against his heaving chest and listen as his breathing slowed. He closed his eyes and let those lost feelings wash over him.

When he opened them again, Liam was up on his feet; the fight had ended. Liam held out a dirty hand to help his opponent up. He clapped his hand on the guy’s shoulder and said something to him that Zayn couldn’t hear. Then he wiped some of the blood from the other boy’s face. Liam stepped back into the crowd and spoke to a few other guys with a smile that spread upward and made his eyes crinkle in the sweetest way.

Zayn’s heart twitched and he turned abruptly around. He bounded up the stairs, two at a time, running through the empty pub and out the door.

*****

Zayn slumped against his door and listened to the blood rushing through his ears and his heart pounding in his chest. His breathing slowed and Zayn lifted himself up off the beige carpet. His flat was sparsely furnished with a red velvet couch he had found on a curb, and a broken TV he always meant to have fixed, but couldn’t really be bothered. Artwork from a few of his friends was leaned against the walls, but none of Zayn’s own. Zayn had never painted anything good enough to hang.

            He made his way into the guest bedroom-turned-studio and dug out a blank canvas. He found his paint palette and opened the drawer of paints next to his easel. He stood in front of the canvas and chose a few colors. He started with big strokes and began painting wildly, as if the inspiration would run from his mind like water cupped in his hands. But it didn’t. Zayn stood there all night, smoking and painting. Painting with all the browns and tans of Liam and the reds and blues and blacks of a fight. Of Liam fighting. Just Liam, fighting against an absent opponent. Liam straddled above a bare concrete floor, hands wrapped around air. Liam’s back, scapula flexed, arm flung out to the side for a right hook. It was Liam’s bloodied knuckles, and his brown eyes blackened and swollen, it was Liam’s parted red lips, split open and bleeding.

Zayn went to fight club again and he realized his paintings were all wrong. Liam was electric when he fought, the paintings were flat. Liam was a loose wire, crackling with electricity while Zayn was a lamp with a flickering bulb hid beneath a dark shade.

Night after night, Zayn went to fight club and then ran home. He painted on canvas and wrote poetry, and sketched. And he got it wrong. Every single time, it was wrong. Liam was too perfect, too elusive.

*****

The next fight club, Liam hung back in the shadows after Harry’s speech. He was always first, always ready for a fight. But tonight Zayn watched him whisper with his mates for a bit. He watched his abs tighten when he laughed and watched the way he flicked his fringe out of his innocent eyes. Zayn watched and felt more broken, and more angry.

Finally, after a few fights, Liam seemed ready for his turn and stepped into the ‘ring’. Something came over him, and Zayn’s feet were moving him through the crowd, stopping in the middle of the circle right in front of his muse. His anger surged as Liam’s bushy eyebrows raised. He pulled off his shirt and threw it to the side on the floor, his shoes and belt followed. Liam’s eyes trailed over Zayn’s jutting hip bones and his thin arms and Zayn could see the fear of breaking him behind Liam’s eyes. It was quickly replaced with the excitement of the fight.

The two began to circle each other and all Zayn could think was that Liam had nothing to be afraid of, he was already broken. Zayn wanted to shoot all the endangered pandas that wouldn’t fuck to save their species. Liam’s fist came out first, arm arcing wide, and Zayn partially blocked it, taking a light blow to his body. He jabbed into Liam’s face and it connected.

Something snapped in him then. Lunging at Liam, Zayn’s fists flew wildly. He pounded into Liam’s abdomen and then cut upwards into his perfect jaw. He wanted to burn the Louvre. He wanted to wipe his ass with the _Mona Lisa_. Liam’s fist suddenly flew into the side of Zayn’s face and felt the blow all the way to his toes. Liam pushed forward and wrestled Zayn to the ground.

For a moment, their eyes searched each other’s face and electricity seemed to crackle between them. Zayn used that split second of distraction and rolled Liam beneath him. He wanted to open up oil tankers and smother all the beautiful Brazilian beaches he’d never see. Zayn pounded into Liam’s face, over and over, ignoring Liam’s blows against him. He felt Liam’s nose break beneath his fist and felt a flood of warm blood on his sore knuckles. Liam’s head cracked into the concrete. He wanted to breathe smoke.

Suddenly, there were arms all over him and Zayn realized no one was yelling anymore. Third rule of fight club is—when someone says ‘stop’ or goes limp, the fight is over.

He broke free from the arms restraining him and sprinted up the stairs and out the door. Zayn fumbled around for his pack of cigarettes, crushed during the fight, and shook one out. Wincing, he wiped blood and sweat from his eyes. He examined his swollen knuckles and wondered if they were covered with Liam’s blood or his own. He lit his cigarette and breathed in the smoke. He heard feet on the porch next to him, looked over and his jaw dropped slightly, cigarette hanging from his lip. There stood a bruised and bloody Liam, one eye questioning him and the other swollen completely shut. He was disfigured, but still gorgeous.

Zayn stared at him with empty eyes. He took another drag of his cigarette and began to walk away. He looked back at the mess of a boy on the porch, “I wanted to destroy something beautiful.”


End file.
